Chasing Windmills Page 7

I knew this was my moment. Either tell him now or go into bald-faced-lie mode. So far I hadn't exactly lied to him. I'm pretty sure. I just hadn't volunteered the truth. Beyond this moment I'd be lying to his face.

  I opened my mouth to speak and thought about Sebastian. Pictured him. What he looked like and how he felt. Not how he felt physically, but more like how I knew he was. Like the kind of guy who would go out and get takeout for a surprise.

  “It's just delayed.”

  “They're always good about paying you on time.”

  “That's why I thought I should be patient this one time.”

  “What's the delay?”

  “I forget. Danny explained it but I forgot just what he said.”

  “A few more days and I'm going to call them. Get the story.”

  “No. Please don't do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It's embarrassing. You should let me take care of it myself.”

  “But you don't. I know you. You don't take care of things. You're always afraid to speak up.”

  “I will if I need to.”

  “A couple of days and it will be time.”

  “Okay. Okay, already. Let's just walk home.”

  “SEE?” CARL SAID as we stood outside our door. “She stopped fussing.”

  Fussing was a bit of an understatement to describe what she'd been doing.

  “I guess,” I said.

  When we opened the door, the babysitter was already halfway there, rushing to greet us. She looked like she'd been though a couple of car accidents and maybe a small war. And as soon as the door was open, I could hear Natalie. She was still wailing, but now it was just coming out as a hoarse little croak. She had wailed herself into full-on laryngitis. She had not been about to stop until I came home. If I had stayed away two hours longer, she would have wailed her near-silent wail for another two hours, easy.

  I went in to her and held her and lay on her little youth bed with her, where I don't really fit. And told her I was sorry. Very quietly. So that Carl, who was out paying the poor frazzled babysitter, couldn't possibly hear.

  She went silent, her thumb in her mouth and her other tiny hand holding a piece of my shirt sleeve with surprising strength. I listened to the wet sounds of her thumb-sucking, and to the easy breathing of C.J., asleep in his bed on the other side of the room.

  A few minutes later, Carl stuck his head in the door.

  “You spoil her too much,” he said.

  I said nothing.

  “We're going to stop spoiling her so much,” he said.

  “Look, I'm trying to get her down, okay?”

  He stepped out, closing the door behind him. I breathed deeply, knowing our date night was finally over.

  Natalie fell asleep in a matter of a couple of minutes. But I stayed with her, on that tiny uncomfortable bed, until I was sure Carl must be asleep.

  For some reason I got it into my head that we'd fly into each other's arms. You know, see each other across a crowded platform and run in seeming slow motion. I guess I'd been watching too many old movies. Well, one. But my father would've called that one too many, I guess.

  The real scene was a little less dramatic. I was sitting on a bench, my back snug up against the slats. Just for a minute I'd looked away from the direction of the stairs. Then I looked up, and she was standing over me. Smiling, but shyly.

  She said, “Hi, Tony.”

  My heart just fell. I thought, She doesn't even remember my name. Here I've been thinking I actually meant something to her, and she doesn't even know my name.

  I think she saw my face fall. I thought I saw my own disappointment reflected back to me in the mirror of her face.

  “It's Sebastian,” I said.

  She just kept smiling. “No, silly. I said I'd give you a nickname. Remember?” She sat down next to me, purposely bumping her shoulder against mine. “I know it's not exactly short for Sebastian. Then again, what is? But it's still the right one for you. And I'll tell you why. Because of that movie, West Side Story. My mother named me Maria because of the Natalie Wood character in that movie. And Tony was the name of the boy. So, that's us. Tony and Maria.”

  I just sat there, looking at her eyes. They were so dark I was wondering if they were actually black. Or just really dark brown. And underneath that I was thinking how handicapped I was, not knowing about all these movies that everyone else seemed to know. So I just nodded, like it was all very fascinating. Which it was. While another part of me was wondering how old she was, and if she thought I was older than I actually was. Because I'm tall. And whether she would lose interest altogether if I told her the truth.

  “So, is that okay?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “If I call you Tony?”

  “Oh. Yeah. That's great.” It sounded like a compliment. I couldn't wait to find out.

  Then she said, “Walk with me, okay?”

  She got up and held out her hand and I took it. I could feel a jolt of current run up my arm, like she was plugged into a high-voltage wall socket. I wondered if she felt the same thing the same way. I got up, and we walked up the exit stairs and out into the cool Manhattan night. Holding hands.

  The city at night is actually more comforting than the subway at night. It's anything but deserted. At least, in that neighborhood. There are so many people out on the street, it's almost like broad daylight. Just darker. Everything is open. Everything functions pretty much the same.

  I watched people walk by us. Pass us going the other way, or overtake us and pass in the same direction. We weren't walking very fast. They looked at us the way people look at each other on the street: not for long. Just looked, then looked away. It struck me that they accepted what they saw. They looked at Sebastian and Maria—Tony and Maria, I mean—and saw us as a couple, walking down the street holding hands.

  I noticed that she glanced a lot at the ground in front of her, and stepped carefully, like she was worried about tripping over something. But I didn't ask and I couldn't find it in myself to care.

  I got this feeling in my chest like my heart was getting bigger and bigger, until it almost hurt. I kept thinking in a minute it wasn't going to fit. That my chest would rupture or explode.

  I looked up at the sky, and it was clouded over. It had been cloudy all day. All of a sudden I wished it would rain. All of a sudden I felt like Gene Kelly. I wanted to get soaked in the pouring rain like an idiot, and break into a song and dance instead of running for cover. I actually wanted to dance in the rain. I felt that good. And I don't even dance.

  “I'm hungry,” she said. “The vendors are still out. Not sure why, but I thought maybe we could get a hot dog.”

  She indicated the hot dog vendor on the next corner with a flip of her chin.

  My stomach turned to ice.

  I had never, not once, not in my entire life, eaten food sold on the street. My father had convinced me that you would pretty much clutch your stomach and die on the spot. To him it was about the equivalent of jumping in front of the cross-town bus. Somewhere in my head I knew people must eat hot dogs and survive. Then again, I figured they were sick for days with food poisoning, off in a place where I couldn't see them.

  I said, “Have you eaten hot dogs from a vendor before?” Trying not to sound too unsure.

  “Yeah, lots of times. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  If Maria wanted a hot dog, Tony was going to get her one.

  We walked right up to that cart like we owned the world. On the outside. On the inside, I hated to even have to tell a stranger what I wanted. And I sure didn't want to die young.

  Maria said, “Two with everything.”

  I paid for two. Praying that meant she was hungry enough to eat two. The guy spoke very little English, but he seemed to understand “Two with everything.” I guess you'd have to, in his business. He heaped two hot dogs with mustard and ketchup and relish and onions, and handed one to each of us.

  We started walking again
, but of course we needed both hands to hold the hot dogs, which seemed like losing ground. And she was looking over at me, waiting for me to take a bite. So I took a deep breath, and I did. It was good! It was really, really good. Not like the soups and stews my father made, night after night. Organic vegetables and free-range chicken. You are what you eat. He actually says that. Often.

  I thought, Okay. So I'm a New York all-beef frank with everything. Named Tony. And I have no regrets. Because it's so entirely better than what I was before.

  I ate the whole thing in about six bites. I didn't feel sick. I felt wonderful.

  And even though in my head I knew it takes a while for food poisoning to strike, I somehow instinctively knew it wouldn't. Once again, my father was just wrong.

  I vowed to try even more forbidden experiences.

  She finished her hot dog a little slower than I did. We threw the papers and the napkins into a trash can as we walked by. Then we walked on and I felt her hand slip back into mine.

  I felt another electric shock, but this time it was different. Deeper and mellower. Not something that would make you jump. More just something you'd feel and then smile.

  “I know I don't really know you,” she said. “But I feel like I can trust you.”

  “You can.”

  “I should have answered your question. I know you asked out of caring. I should've answered. I'm sorry. I was afraid if I told you, you'd never want to see me again. I still am. Afraid. That you'll never want to see me again.”

  I could feel the shift in the energy of the conversation. I searched my brain trying to remember what question I had asked her that she hadn't answered. I could feel her looking over at the side of my face, so I looked back. She still had a little line of scab on her lower lip.

  Oh. Right. That question.

  “There's nothing you could tell me that would make me not want to see you again.”

  “Nothing? Promise?”

  “Well, unless you savagely murder people for fun or something.”

  “No. I never killed anybody.”

  “Then whatever it is, I'd still want to see you.”

  “Promise?”

  That actually caught in my stomach for a split second. Because it could be anything. It could be something awful. But of course I said, “Promise.”

  “Okay. But remember, you promised. The reason I had some bruises on my face … and that I wear long sleeves … and that I ride up and down the Lexington line at night …”

  There was a long pause. I was thinking, Long sleeves? It was a disjointed thought, I guess. But I'd never dreamed that the long sleeves were part of the picture. I waited in agony for her to go on. I felt like there was an anvil teetering over my head. Just in the process of being dropped out a window.

  “… is because of Carl.”

  Bang. The anvil landed. On me. Direct, painful hit. Good shot.

  “Carl?”

  “Yeah. The guy that I … you know …” I didn't want to know. I wanted to beg her not to tell me, but it was too late. “… live with.”

  I stopped walking. She stopped walking. I looked at her face but she wouldn't look at me. She was looking down at the sidewalk. I was vaguely aware of people spilling around the obstacle of us. But only vaguely.

  I can't tell you what I was thinking here. Nothing, I guess. The anvil had knocked out every thought on its way through. Now it was lodged firmly in my stomach. Where I figured it would sit for the rest of my life.

  “He kind of loses his temper. But it's partly my fault. You know, if I could just stay out of his way. If I wouldn't always say the wrong thing at the wrong time. He comes home from work at eleven. And he hates his job. So until he settles down … you know … unwinds … that's a good time to be somewhere else. So usually I'm on the subway. And then things are okay. Pretty much. Usually. Pretty much okay.”

  I looked at her face again. She still wouldn't look at me. But I saw a last little trace of the bruise on her cheek, and the line of scab on her lip. And then for the first time I noticed a couple of old scars. One near her eyebrow and one on her chin.

  It seemed like a weird definition of pretty much okay. But I didn't say so. I didn't say anything. I'm not sure I could have. Even if I'd tried.

  She looked up at me suddenly, and it surprised me. “So what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Why do you ride the Lexington line at night? Who are you running away from?”

  I had trouble getting my head to take the sudden turn. The news that she lived with some guy named Carl was like an eclipse of the brain, blocking out everything else. When I finally hauled my mind around to her question, I realized I didn't want her to know the answer. I was afraid to tell her my secret, too. That I was under the thumb of my father because I was only seventeen. Just a minor, a kid. Not even in control of my own life. It seemed almost as horrible as her secret. I thought, If I tell her, she'll never want anything to do with me ever again.

  “Oh, come on,” she said. “After what I told you, how bad could it be?”

  “Why don't you leave him?” I asked. The words came out too strong. Too angry. I wanted to grab them back again. Pull them back in and erase that history.

  “And go where? And do what? I've been with him since I was fifteen. I don't know where else I would go.”

  I wanted to have an answer for that. Wanted it badly. And I wanted to be part of the answer. But nothing came. I couldn't exactly sneak her into my room and hope my father wouldn't notice. And I didn't know anyplace else I could go, either.

  She said, “You didn't answer my question. Who are you trying to stay away from?”

  “My father.”

  “Oh. Couldn't you move out?”

  “Well. Yeah. I guess.” But the truth had to come out. Sooner or later. She'd told me her truth. Because she trusted me. And now I had to trust her in return. “When I'm eighteen.”

  If she was shocked, she didn't let on. “How long will that be?”

  “Almost four months.”

  “Well, that's not so bad. You can sit on the Lexington line for four months, I guess.”

  Then we started back up walking, and she took my hand again. I thought I saw her glance over, to see what my face was doing. But I'm not positive. I didn't look back.

  Out of all the dark clouds in the sky, I felt like the darkest one was sitting about six inches over my head. My own personal disaster, raining on me everywhere I went.

  We walked for a long time like that, in silence. I didn't know what she was thinking and I didn't ask. I don't even know what I was thinking. But my earlier thought about the anvil in my stomach was correct. It wasn't going away. Maybe not ever. And it wasn't the hot dog, either. It was definitely not the hot dog. It was definitely Carl.

  After a while I saw the subway sign, and the stairs, and I realized she had walked me back so I could catch the train home.

  I said, “You've been with this guy for seven years …”

  “Almost eight.”

  “How come you never got married? If you've been together so long, why did you not get married?” I was hoping, I guess, that there might somehow be good news hidden in the answer.

  “Carl thinks marriage is a crock.”

  “And what do you think?”

  I could tell by her silence, and by the look on her face, that she wasn't used to being asked to share her opinion.

  “I'm not sure. I guess I'll have to think about that. So … day after tomorrow?” I noticed a little unsteadiness in her voice. We both knew it was a very important question.

  I reached for an answer but my brain just felt blank. Black. Just all black.

  “Yes,” I heard myself say. “Day after tomorrow.”

  She stretched up onto her toes and kissed me on the cheek and I closed my eyes. I was hoping there would be more, I think. But then I opened my eyes and she had gone.

  I WANTED TO STOP at Delilah's apartment, even though it was the middle of the night
. Well, it was two-thirty. That's the middle of the night to most people. I'd never asked Delilah what time she goes to bed. But I knew she must have by now.

  I didn't take the elevator. I climbed the stairs, three floors. Got to her floor and walked down the hall to 3B and stood there in front of the door, not knowing what to do. I would've given anything to talk to her. Anything. Twenty years off my life. My computer. My time outside the house running. Just for an hour of her time.

  I would have given anything to be the kind of person who could rap on her door at this hour, and when she answered say, “I'm sorry. It's late, I know. I know I woke you, and I'd never do that lightly. But this is just really important.”

  I'm not that guy, and we all know it.

  I walked up to her door and pressed my whole body up against it. Pressed my ear to it. It felt cool and hard against my face. I prayed to hear something. The quiet drone of the TV. A toilet flushing.

  All was silent.

  I let go of the door and walked two more flights up to my own apartment.

  I never even bothered going to bed, because I knew I wouldn't sleep. I just sat by the window, looking out at my tiny piece of world. No thoughts ran patterns in my head. I had no thoughts. Just a kind of blank heaviness. A patch of black that filled up my whole brain.

  It was a long night.

  “I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO,” I said. Probably more than once.

  I was sitting slumped over on Delilah's couch. Having already said everything about the situation I knew how to say. Knowing in advance I would sacrifice my whole running time. My whole outdoors time. Not that it was much of a sacrifice right now. Just walking down two flights to her apartment had been something like climbing Mount Everest.

  “Well, I could tell you what I would do,” she said.

  “Okay. Yeah.” That's really what I needed from Delilah. She'd obviously gotten a look at the rule book on life. The one my father had carefully kept from me.

  “No, never you mind,” she said. “You'd think I was nuts.”

  I looked up at her. Maybe for the first time this visit. She was bustling around in the kitchen. I mean, as much as Delilah bustles. Making iced tea. From scratch, of course. Unwrapping tea bags while she waited for the kettle to boil. It was just too muggy and hot to drink hot tea out of a cup. More than either one of us could manage. After a moment of silence, she looked back at me. Saw I'd been watching her.